Stay
by angel-death-dealer
Summary: He was going to die. Or pass out. Or start hyperventilating. Or stop breathing. Wait, that was dying, right?


He was going to die.

Or pass out. Or start hyperventilating. Or stop breathing.

Wait, that was dying, right?

No, if he stopped breathing, he'd eventually pass out, and passing out can't kill you.

Well, something bad was going to happen, and he wasn't a doctor but he was sure that it wasn't something good. His palms were sweating. His heart was pounding. Every limb was trembling. His tongue felt five times bigger than it should be.

Oh god, she was really going.

The small case was by the door and he knew that it contained nothing but bare essentials she'd take with her. A change of clothing most likely identical or impeccibly close to the S.H.I.E.L.D issued uniform, hairbrush, toothbrush…bare essentials. There wouldn't be any momentos, jewellery, photographs…nothing that would give away her cover. If she was exposed as an undercover agent, she'd be compromised and possibly killed.

Everything personal to her was staying in this room. Their room. Over the years they'd gradually merged into sharing the same sleeping quarters each time they moved to a new base, and now that they were living more permanently at Stark Tower they'd decided it was no point even pretending that they shared a bed. It was still their room, even though she wasn't going to be here for a while and he didn't know how long that while was going to last. She was going into the heart of a mob operation which was working through HYDRA, a dangerous position no matter how talented and capable she was in the field. She was leaving. Everything else was staying.

Her straightening irons and hair tongs were still in their en suite bathroom, along with her shampoos, conditioners and the self-indulgent bath oils that no one but Clint knew she enjoyed. In the kitchen, her lilac mug would continue to sit next to his navy blue one in the cupboard, and her own personal favourite ice cream would remain half-eaten in the freezer because he sure as hell wasn't letting Stark near it now. She'd told him to throw it out or eat it himself, but he wanted to keep it in case the date was still good when she came back. They both knew it wouldn't be because it expired in four days, but it gave him hope when she agreed to that.

"Clint," she whispered from the bathroom doorway. "It's time."

"It's not," he immediately denied, shaking his head as she approached him. "It's not time. We need more time."

When she was stood before him he heard that her breath was shaking as much as his was. She looked hesitant to leave, their first mission with any true anticipated danger which they had ever attempted separately in three years. He wanted to spend as much time looking at her as he could, but he drew her into his arms with so much force that it hurt them both a little. Still, they clung to each other, almost wanting it to bruise so they had a reminder of this moment, the moment in which they were together. They needed this moment. As Clint had said, they needed more time.

Will I be home for Christmas? she'd joked when Fury first announced the mission. He'd said no.

It was September.

"We'll have more time," she told him.

"I thought we didn't make these promises," he reminded her bitterly.

"Clint," she pleaded softly.

"Sorry," he breathed against her hair. "I just…this morning has come around faster than I thought it would."

"Everything's happened fast," she agreed. "There are promises I can't make, that I won't make, but you know I'll promise to be as careful as I can be, and that I'll do everything I can to make it home in one piece."

He nodded against her and continued ot hold her close. The need to speak and say everything was overcome by the lack of wanting to say goodbye. So, they held each other and didn't let go until they absolutely had to. When they did pull away, neither of them hid the tears on their cheeks. There was a time, before them, before this, before he cared so damn much, that she could go off on missions like this one without him even being told until she was out of the country, and it concerned him for his partners wellbeing but now…now there was a 'them' and a relationship and now that he did care so damn much, these mornings were given with advance warnings and pained goodbyes. Their lips met with a softness and an urgency, neither wanting it to be their last kiss even though the situation may have made it so. If this was to be their last kiss, he wanted her to feel all his love in it, and if it wasn't, then he needed it to be enough for her to come home to.

Their lips parted reluctantly and their foreheads fell together. He wasn't sure if his heart was pounding overtime or whether it was about to stop beating altogether, all he knew was that he didn't have the necessary motor skills to let go of her. His arms were cemented to her sides, his hands fused to her back. Even though she wouldn't need it, he wanted to believe that he could protect her from the rest of the world with those arms. Instead, he would just leave them open for her to walk into when she came back, hopefully in the perfect condition in which she was leaving them in.

"Tasha, please…."

"Clint, you can't ask me not to go," she told him, her voice unmistakenly thickened with tears.

"Why not?" he asked, his own voice bordering on matching hers.

"Because I can't stay," she told him. "They're orders."

"Tasha-"

"Clint, please, this is hard enough already," she begged him.

"I know this has already been decided by higher powers than us, but I don't think I'm strong enough to watch you walk into this…not after everything…" he admitted, his hands pressing firmer into her back. "I don't…I can't watch you leave, Tasha, I can't."

"You have to," she whispered

And then at that moment, he looked into her eyes and the one word he needed to say was bursting from his lips. "Stay," he whispered.

She buried her face against his neck. "I told you not to ask me that," she told him, her voice sounding even more broken.

"If I ask again, will you stay?" he requested.

"Yes," she whispered. "So don't ask."

He said nothing more and held her face against his, their lips brushed together even though they weren't kissing, just sharing the same air. There were no interruptions bar the waiting car downstairs, a car that would be leaving in three minutes with her in the back seat. No one would come looking for her or drag her away, she would leave of her own accord, which meant they would have to take themselves apart, separate themselves in much more obvious terms than just from their arms.

"I love you, Clint," she told him.

"I love you, Tasha."

And that's all he remembered, because he closed his eyes for the rest. He didn't see her picking up the bag and close the door to the room behind her. He didn't want to remember the sight of her leaving, he wanted to remember the look in her eyes when she told him she loved him. He neede to cling to that memory, just in case that was the last one.

If he had to bury her, he'd bury her knowing that the last thing he did was tell her that he loved her.

And six months and twelve days later, when she turns up in the training room battered, bruised, but alive, it's the first thing he tells her.


End file.
